


migration

by haywoodyablowme



Series: come a little closer [2]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: and then he woke up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2019-12-25 12:18:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18261134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haywoodyablowme/pseuds/haywoodyablowme
Summary: The birth of humanity has never been quiet or calm- it’s always with screaming and bangs and noise. The rebirth is no different. First, the coughing- hacking and wheezing. A horrible choir of burning lungs surrounds him- and he doesn’t move to calm them. He does keep people from colliding together- but anything more than that would be too intimate. He waits it out- sits and reads, his knuckles going white but his face a sheet of stone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> two posts one day

Turbulent re-entry to Wolf 359’s orbit is the technical shorthand for what they experience. The walls of the Hephaestus seem to shake and warp and the oxygen is just on the edge of available- but it ends. The ship is stable, systems operational, and Alana can only stare at the space Bob was standing in. She’s fidgeting with her skin- picking at some spots and she’s trying to think- piece it all together. It doesn’t make sense- it might never make sense. 

 

She’s trying to factor everything in- first the contact event had Kepler on edge, then the mutiny- then she dies. Now, somehow, she’s alive? That’s not possible- there’s no way this is real- or if it is- is she human still? She has to be. She’s breathing- she can feel, her heart is beating, then- how is this real?

 

“Doctor.” Hilbert’s voice snaps her out of her pensive state. She looks to him, his arms loaded with medical equipment she’d never understand. “The ship is without an AI. You will need to make- dummy program.” He barely knows what he’s talking about and it shows; the confidence in his voice is nominal at best and he actually seems anxious about something. Maybe he just doesn’t want to be wrong.

 

“You don’t think we can keep a flightpath for earth and keep systems nominal?” Alana teases. Hilbert scowls. Alana rolls her eyes and relaxes. “Joking, jeez, got a sense of humor in that lab coat?” Maxwell hums. She makes her way to the bridge of the ship and Hilbert goes off to tend to the barely conscious parties on board.

 

Alana takes a deep breath and pushes her forefinger against the bridge of her glasses, sits in the chair in front of the bridge console, fastens herself to it and cracks her knuckles.

 

Hilbert busies himself with the unconscious. He’s thankful for this at least- he won’t have to suffer through hearing them reactivate- the awful choking and coughing. Little blessings make life worth living. 

 

The birth of humanity has never been quiet or calm- it’s always with screaming and bangs and noise. The rebirth is no different. First, the coughing- hacking and wheezing. A horrible choir of burning lungs surrounds him- and he doesn’t move to calm them. He does keep people from colliding together- but anything more than that would be too intimate. He waits it out- sits and reads, his knuckles going white but his face a sheet of stone.

 

A blanket of silence falls on the ship and it lasts all of thirty seconds.

 

“Har-poon!” Cutter yells, snapping awake dizzy and furious. He’s heaving and tries to steady himself- wait. Zero gravity- no- what? He looks enraged and confused and like he could tear someone open. Hilbert presses a hand to chest and pushes him back, tries to make him relax. “Oh you- you, you died,” Cutter’s rage is lessened and he sounds almost concerned, “Oh- Aleksandr-” Cutter begins to smile. “Dmitri- Elias, Aleksandr-” he laughs. “You-” his gaze lands on Warren, hacking and wheezing and coughing his lungs up. “You’re a traitor!” He growls, fear cracks across Kepler’s face like a bolt of lightning and then- he’s back to coughing. “You- you- bastard,” Cutter tries to move toward Kepler, but his center of balance hurdles from his torso to the space below his feet and he spins over himself. 

 

“Sir- you-” Kepler coughs, he’s unintelligible over all the coughing and wheezing, and he’s trying to put as much distance between himself and Cutter. 

 

“Stop trying t-” Hilbert tries to interrupt, barely dodging a fist Cutter aims directly at his nose. “Mr. Cutter.” Hilbert speaks firmly. “Rest.”

 

“Wait- Miranda-” Cutter sounds desperate as he looks around- searching. He can see- Aleksandr- no, Dmitri and Warren- where’s Miranda- and Rachel? He’s frantic, trying to move too fast, throwing his whole body weight into it, and he doubles over, a pain he couldn’t understand finally clear as day. The space between his stomach and his chest feels empty- and it’s searing with pain that he can’t find the words for and it brings him to his knees- as close to his knees as he can get with no gravity. “Miranda- Miranda,” Cutter whines, curling in on himself. Hilbert’s at his side in an instant, trying to comfort him despite Cutter’s attempt at distancing himself.

 

“-She’s not a good woman-” Kepler starts, “He’s no better- he uses people- he used me-” Kepler’s voice comes to it’s full potential, and he leans on the wall behind him to keep steady. “Is this- recycled? No- reused- repurposed? Re, re- something- something, re- remade?” He asks racking his brain. “Re- re,” he thinks aloud and taps his fingers on the wall. “Reply-? No- reconnaissance-” He perks up. 

 

“What are you spying on Colonel?” Hilbert asks in a flat,uninterested voice.

 

“No- no!” Kepler grunts. “Reconcile- I need to-” He sighs and closes his eyes. “I need to say something..” He loses himself in thought and his eyes close in contemplation.

 

“Where, is everyone?” Cutter asks almost desperately, his hand curled into the fabric of Hilbert’s lab coat. He looks pleading and small and almost like a child. Hilbert shakes his head.

 

“Not here.” Hilbert sighs, and Cutter lets go of him. He curls in on himself and goes limp as he’s pulled to be tucked into bed. The process repeats- Hilbert drags Kepler and Rachel and Riemann to bed no matter where he finds them or what kind of fight they put up to keep to themselves. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two doctors in space reflect on whatever they damn well please.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how long ago did i post the other parts? wow  
> anyway,

The station’s stillness is interrupted by a stiff, synthetic voice and the muffled commands of the only other conscious organic being in the area.

 

Hilbert doesn’t move to approach or talk to Maxwell- instead, here he sits in the observation deck, his face unchanged as the ship hurtles through space and time. He isn’t alone. He knows that much by now. Alien races do exist and they are all around him, the ship has an all seeing almost omnipotent mother program that can sense and see and hear him. He is not alone, but solitude still weighs down on his heart.

 

His mind is a minefield of questions with no real answers. He knows what he is- how he came to be. That was answered quite neatly. He knows where he is- but the meaning is lost on him. What is a man but a pile of organic matter, tortured by his own thoughts and anxieties? To be released from that- is something he could never hold a candle to let alone put a name to. It is nothing and everything; an instant and an eternity all in the same breath. Hilbert closed his eyes in the engineering wing, and opened them in a star. He doesn’t have a reason to be here- the decima experiments were set back to stage one- at least in this ship, and everything was reset and augmented. He’s flying blind.

 

Hilbert crosses his legs and mimics the action of sitting as he stares out the big bay window. The memory of handcuffs almost feels real as his hands rest between his legs and his eyelids feel like sheets of granite.

 

What is a man? A miserable little pile of secrets. He huffs and shakes his head. A man is nothing more than the empty words he doesn’t speak, and by that standard- Hilbert would forever be a man. It wrenches his heart and ties his intestines in knots- knowing that no matter what- he’ll always be reassembled in this body he despises. Seeing his reflection is almost as painful as the first licks of fire that danced across his skin.

 

As he pushes past the sleeping bodies of his (former?) superiors, avoiding every reflective surface he comes across, the only prominent feeling he can identify is exhaustion. Can aliens dream? Would it be the same mess of neurons firing or would he see something else- no. No. There is work to be done. Hilbert exits the room and makes for his lab. The room is a corpse this time, nothing indicative of life past or present exists in the room anymore; whether he should thank Goddard or the aliens or if there is a difference between the two, he doesn’t decide.

 

\---

 

Alana doesn’t bother finding Hilbert when the AI is functional. She’s proud of her work but the risk of carrying his baggage and then hearing him depreciate the life of an intelligent being- isn’t appealing. It never has been. So she doesn’t make an effort to engage. Instead, she re-familiarizes herself with the AI’s main terminal. Everything is still familiar, except- she isn’t there. Every piece of the terminal and it’s logs that made Hera unique are wiped clean. She can only hope she got out. Could the aliens recreate a technological wonder?

 

They can rebuild things they’ve seen or- experienced, might be the word. If Lovelace’s ship could be remade in the same creaking condition it was found in; Hera could be reprogrammed just the way she remembered her. Maxwell chews the inside of her cheek and cracks the knuckles of her fingers, the black ink of space broken up by pinhole stars is hardly comforting. Would Hera be the same as she remembered? Is Maxwell even the same as she remembered?

 

Careful inspection says yes- all the little scars and stretch-marks are the same- in the same place and she is imperfect. Another inspection leaves Maxwell a stranger in her skin. Everything about her is exactly the same but shifted to a direction she couldn’t anticipate. Her skin is not her own. Her bones are from a donor- her consciousness isn’t even hers. It’s the same synthetic map of neurons she just put together- except instead of a blank slate, her creators had a person to work off of.

 

Wolf 359 ate her body and spit out a replacement- is it their way of saying sorry for the bumpy ride? She swallows and takes a deep breath. It’s not clear if it matters- she’s alive and- the ship isn’t in top shape but- it’s not implausible to think the thing could get them back to Earth- if they even have a place there anymore. Something spikes up in her mind- Jacobi. He’s (hopefully) on Earth- he’s probably mourning her or- torturing himself. (hopefully) He’s still alive by the time she makes it to him.


End file.
